


minute

by lightning_alexander (fanficcornerwriter19)



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: (again; sort of), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Color, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Elias Lives, English narration, Escape to Europe, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Multi, Not Beta Read, Simoun Is Ibarra's Brother, Some Filipino Dialogue, Some Tagalog Dialogue, Will Be Tagged As Chapters Are Added, as in swear words, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficcornerwriter19/pseuds/lightning_alexander
Summary: minute(n.): a short space of time; a moment: the distance one can traverse in a minute(adj.): very small; infinitesimalSome one-shots, many of them AU, many of them about Elias and Crisostomo Ibarra. May get violent, especially when Simoun is involved. Elibarra will be indicated in the opening notes of each chapter/one-shot. So will the universes, if a chapter takes place in the universe of a different one.
Relationships: Crisostmo Ibarra & Maria Clara, Elias & Crisostomo Ibarra, Elias & Salome, Elias/Crisostomo Ibarra, Elias/Salome (Noli Me Tangere & Related Works)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. i did not think to live this far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ibarra is adrift, and he needs a friend. 
> 
> (Canon-divergent AU, and the one-shot that started it all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very self-indulgent and likely not very accurate. Enjoy anyway.

Ibarra startled awake to a dark sky and the chill of night in an open space, the trees whispering their unintelligible secrets just outside and the remains of his grandfather resting quietly in their final home, blanketed in shadow, as if also asleep. His breath cut sharp against the sounds of the woods as he curled in on himself and raised his shaking hands to his face. There was no blood on them. The night was so still any sound louder than a footfall would be heard clearly. There were no gunshots. There were no screams.

He was no longer young enough to sleep on cold stone unfeelingly, but neither was he old enough to feel stiff for very long. Waking at this time of night meant no more sleep for the rest of it; he bundled his coat around his shoulders and crept past the gate, tying it carefully shut behind him.

“Elias,” he said. “I need you.” 

No answer came. Elias had not been in the mausoleum, either. Where had he gone? 

His dreams resurfaced in distorted, horrifying ripples. He gripped his coat tighter to still the furious trembling in his fingers; they seemed to remember what he had imagined them doing, and howled to be given rein to do it in reality. Ibarra stood there and shivered with anger. The dream was already fading, but the roar in his ears painted new images that frightened and tempted him terribly. The chilly December wind bit at his skin; the fiery avenging rage burned at his heart.

“Elias,” he pleaded. “Come here, _te lo ruego_ [I beg you], come here.” 

A silhouette materialized beside him. “Elias!” 

“Last I checked, yes,” he replied archly. “Was it a nightmare that woke you?” 

Ibarra slowly shook his head. “Not quite. My anger frightened me.” He reached out hesitantly and clenched his hand on a sleeve of Elias’s camisa. Its owner drew nearer, gently, reassuringly.

He did not speak for some time. “I thought you knew what grief is.” 

“I thought I did,” said Ibarra. _But I don’t_ passed between them, unsaid and understood.

Elias’s quiet murmur blended into the hum of the night, low and grounding. “Perhaps it is that you have changed, and grief is no longer the same for you as it was. Perhaps it is that you never finished grieving your father before everything else happened. It could be any one of a million things, and it defies definition.” 

Ibarra heard his sigh dissipate on the wind as the edges of his anger subsided; it would return, but as long as he was not alone, he could talk himself out of his more violent wishes. Why, then, must he stay here, in the center of all that ignited those wishes—

“Let’s run away,” said Ibarra impulsively. “We can go to Manila, or Batangas, or—even Europe. It matters little where we go—as long as our destination is not here.” 

“Our? You—want me to come with you?” 

“Of course I do. Who else would I go with? I should go mad with no one but myself for company, and all the world believes me dead.” He met Elias’s eyes—dark, deeper than fathomless. “You are my friend, and—if I am not mistaken—your need of me is the same as my need of you. What do you say?” 

The moment Elias found his doubts showed on his face and in the way his hand brushed awkwardly against Ibarra’s side. “I—” 

“We have spent three years here now, Elias,” he begged. “We are no better for it. I still wake in the early hours of the morning, and I still find you wandering the forest when I look for you. We are just as we were that day—perhaps a little more scarred”—Elias twitched, as though his scars responded to Ibarra’s words—“a little more alone.” He exhaled shakily. “Please.” 

It was almost a physical struggle. Elias was fiercely dedicated to those he loved, and that category numbered many—people who loved him in return, people whose paths only intersected with his once, people who never met him at all; even a concept could stir as passionate a devotion in him as a person. But he was a person, not a purpose, and he was no longer as perfect an instrument as he had been three years ago—if he ever had been perfect. 

“Are you sure you want me to come with you?” 

Ibarra smiled. The fight was already half-won; Elias never doubted that what Ibarra wanted, Ibarra got—insofar as the wishes of other people allowed him. Elias already acknowledged that Ibarra would go. “You are Elias,” he said, as if it were obvious. “No other would suffice.” 

“You flatter me,” said his companion dryly.

“Don’t be obtuse. It ill suits you.” He turned to him. “You begged me once to go. You never gave me the chance to answer. I say now: I will go, but only if you come with me. It is both of us or neither.” 

Elias blinked rapidly. His eyes burned for an instant.

“Where shall we go, señor?”

* * *

“First we must see if Basilio is well,” said Ibarra, huddling in his coat against the very gate that Sisa had entered that fateful Christmas Eve. To be awake by oneself in the hours that follow midnight rouses thoughts that match the solitude and the darkness, but to be awake and plotting with a dear friend in those same hours brings with it the warmth of conspiracy and trust. For some people there is little they enjoy more. Elias was one such person, and though Ibarra was not, the rage and helplessness of an hour before seemed far away. 

“He wanted to go to Manila,” Ibarra continued, “so that is our first destination.”

“Suppose he is not there?” 

He inclined his head, puzzled. “Why should he not be there?” 

Elias laughed outright. “What faith you have, man! Your only consideration is the boy’s will, and while I am sure his spirit is willing enough, his flesh might not have found food or good shelter on his way there; his flesh may have been run over by a careless _cochero_ , or it may have been beaten to death by a _guardia civil_ before he had gone half a kilometer!” Ibarra’s embarrassment and consternation—for this was the first time in the three years they had known each other that Elias had laughed—only made him laugh the more. 

“Well, it pleases me that you are happy,” remarked Ibarra, somewhat dryly, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

After everything, after all of it, he had managed to emerge, if not unscathed, unwarped. Elias would have believed in Ibarra regardless, but seeing people break was never a pleasant experience. To know that he would not have to watch Ibarra break, at least not now, reassured him. 

“To repeat my question: what if we scour Manila, and we do not find Basilio?”

“Then we wander where we wish, and look for him wherever we go.” 

He quelled the urge to smile. Ibarra was silly in many ways, naive in others, and ignorant in still more—but that could be changed. The silly can learn sense, the naive can become aware, the ignorant can set aside their ignorance; only with great difficulty can the despairing find hope. And Ibarra--he hoped like he breathed, as if he was only a child with stars in his eyes and a sun in his heart. Perhaps he _was_ a child, but among the few things Elias wished for was that even after he saw the world in its entirety, Ibarra could keep hoping like that. “As you wish.” 

“Have you anything to do, after this?” 

Elias inclined his head. “After what?”

“Once I feel sure that Basilio is taken care of… what then? What will you do?” 

Good question. 

He could always return here. His plans had come to nothing; the work was never-ending, and he could happily devote himself to it for the rest of his life—at least until he tired of it, or it tired of him. When that day came, the mountains would still stand, and perhaps there could be Mindoro, and Salome—

And Salome would by then have forgotten him, as it behooved her to do, as he himself had instructed her. The idea of suddenly emerging from the past and saying to her, ‘Here I am! Now that I have room for you, remember me!’ repulsed him. She deserved better than that, from him if from no one else.

Three strange, turbid minutes passed. At last he took off his salakot and lay down. 

“I don’t know.” 

In the instant before sleep claimed them both, Elias heard Ibarra’s reply: 

“Take your time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias is stupid, okay. He wrestles a crocodile without even asking for a knife. _Of course_ he'll just trek through the forest for two days straight, without eating or sleeping, because he promised Ibarra he'd meet him by his grandfather's grave. Ibarra doesn't give a shit if you're a few hours late, Elias, but he WILL if you die on him within an hour of appearing. 
> 
> My theory for this one is that Ibarra accidentally bumped into Elias before the two days were up and forced him to take care of himself. The gunshot wounds were likely non-fatal by themselves—Elias died probably from a combination of infection, starvation, and exhaustion, not from his wounds alone—but I imagine Ibarra found him really early, just to be sure.


	2. sick boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simoun has had too much, Crisostomo genuinely gets scared for his life, and Elias is a good friend. 
> 
> (Modern AU. Simoun and Crisostomo are the Ibarra twins, and Simoun has problems.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This borrows a lot from an experience I had some time ago and also from the musical _Dear Evan Hansen_. In it, Zoe Murphy says that her brother Connor has previously threatened to kill her, which is kind of where this came from. 
> 
> Warning for swear words, death threats, mental illness (implied, because Simoun has not yet been diagnosed), and description of a meltdown/emotional breakdown.

Juan Crisostomo Ibarra | Elias Navarro

[8:00 AM] is simoun here?  
did he come with you? wala raw siya sa klase???

Nope, Sim stayed home.

is he ok?

He point-blank refused to get out of bed and then when Mama threatened him he exploded and swore at her for a whole, like, five minutes. I wanted to go check on him but Papa was almost late na so I just left him a text. idk if he’s seen it.

shit  
i’ll text him na rin  
may wifi ba siya

I think so? My parents usually unplug it but he stayed home so I’m hoping meron?

[8:30 AM] wait, mag-isa siya? wtf he’s a minor

[8:36 AM] Dibaaaaa I tried to convince Mama to just postpone her lunch with her friend, but she said basically that if Sim can’t get his shit together she’s not covering for him anymore.  
I almost got pissy then too, because ffs he’s SIXTEEN. May curfew pa nga kami?? May cap sa phone bill??? Binababy pa ako, eh kambal ko siya, what the fuck.  
I hate to say this  
But it’s almost like my parents WANT him to get killed or tortured or whatever.

[9:31 AM] shet slr may klase ako  
want to have lunch later?  
pareho tayo ng lunch today

Sure, I think I need it.

text Simoun again, okay

Already done.

* * *

Juan Crisostomo Ibarra | Rafael Simoun Ibarra

[6:43 AM] Sim, okay ka lang?  
Hope you are. Papa’s honking his horn na so see you later, I guess.

[8:19 AM] Elias knows you’re not in school. idk maybe Clara told Salome and Salome told him. He’s worried about you. I’m sure you’ve gotten his texts.  
I’M worried about you, Sim.  
Call me later at lunch. Naka on na ringer ko, so fucking call me, gago.

[12:20 PM] Sim.  
SIM. Tinatawag na kita, susmariosep.  
Kung tulog ka or something, I can maybe excuse that. But if you’re not, fucking PICK UP.  
S i m o u n I b a r r a  
I swear to GOD.  
Elias is calling you now too, see if you can PICK UP THIS TIME, bwiset ka.  
[12:45 PM] Please don’t be dead when I come home.

* * *

Juan Crisostomo Ibarra | Elias Navarro

[5:45 PM] This is bad.  
Could be worse.  
Could be better too though.

uh oh anyare

Sim’s been smoking. Inside the house.

hala.

Dibaaa ugh I threw him into the bathroom to take a shower and brush his teeth and I’m spraying his room and his clothes so the parents don’t smell it. He’s already in a bad place and I don’t want them setting him off.

you haven’t yet?

Thankfully, no.  
He just seems really tired. This quarter’s been terrible for him.

alam ko :/  
sana oks lang hapunan nyo

Thanks.

good luck

I think we’ll need it.

[7:14 PM] Fuck fuck FUCK Elias can you come bail me out please?

PUTIK anyare

Papa smelled the smoke so he frisked Sim for the lighter and he found another pack of cigarettes. idk why he thought it was a big deal, I mean hindi naman puno yung pack and Sim obv got it from someone else…? Point is he saw the lighter and the cigs and he just started laying into Sim, who sat there all sulky with his head on the table, which Papa ALSO got mad about.

minsan naiinis talaga ako sa papa niyo

Yeah, well, us too.

Anyway Mama joined in so Sim got mad at all of us. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything, he caught on to that and started shouting at me, too. Mama and Papa tried to make him go to his cool-down room but he didn’t want to go. I told him to go and cool down and somehow from that he got the idea it was my fault? So now he’s mad at ME.

patay.

I don’t know what the fuck he wants anymore. I tried to reach him this morning, I covered up for him this afternoon, what more can he fucking want? I’m not his punching bag, I’m his bROTHER.

that’s . fucked up.

I might cry. Or break something. I don’t know.

sige sige i’m omw na, hang in there

[7:21 PM] Don’t come here anymore Elias if you’re on your way STOP

what the fuck, ano na???

Sim lunged at me and I ran away and hid in our room but he followed me so I locked the door and now he’s trying to single handedly break the door down while shouting that he’s going to kill me.

WHAT???!  
he’s threatening to kill you??

I don’t think he really means it, Elias!  
He’s crying and he sounds hysterical and I really think he’s having a meltdown and I was the thing that set him off. idk what I said but I said something.

never naman siya naging ganito??

You know he’s been getting worse!

JC call the police

NO!

just call the fucking police

Why would you say that?! The way he is right now they’re going to just shoot him and they’ll have plausible deniability because if he got ahold of a gun he WOULD use it

i’m sorry, i’m sorry  
wala lang talaga ako maisip

It’s fine idk what to do either

JC, okay ka lang?  
can you go to your window?

Why, did you put up a sign there?

gago ka gawin mo na lang

Okay, I’m here?

look down  
hi!! oks ka lang?

* * *

Elias looked down at his phone and accepted the call.

“Hi. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“Crisostomo Ibarra, open this fucking door!” _Bang. Bang. Crash._ “Buksan mo, putangina! Bubuksan ko para sa ‘yo, you smug motherfucker!” _Smash. Thunk._

Elias audibly winced. “That’s Simoun?” 

Even his exhale shook. “Y-Yeah. Listen, can I—babalik na lang ako sa bed ko.” When Elias down on the road nodded, Crisostomo staggered back to the corner between his bed and the wall, tucking his blanket over his head and huddling into a ball. “Shit, Elias, what do I do?”

“Mukha ba akong may alam? I don’t know, ikaw kapatid niya!” Something crackled over the phone, as if Elias had scrubbed through his hair, then a sigh. “Okay, don’t—I didn’t mean that. Diyos ko, why’d you call _me_? I’m not good with this!” 

_BAM._ “Patay ka sakin, Crisostomo! When I get my hands on you—” 

Their father's voice, stony with anger. “Simoun, stop that—”

“Fuck you, that son of a bitch is hiding in my room!” 

“I don’t know,” Crisostomo whispered. Should he have called Clara? Should he have called Salome? Hell, should he have called emergency services? But Elias— “Kaibigan kita, ikaw lang naisip ko… Should I get off?” 

“Di ko sinabi yan, JC, my God, stay on. Wala akong alam, hindi kita matutulungan.” Another frustrated sigh splintered over the line. “Look, mukha namang okay yung fire escape. Lumabas ka.”

“Sure ka?” 

“What, gusto mo manatili dyan hanggang masira talaga niya yung pinto?”

Crisostomo got to his feet as stealthily as he could and pulled open the closet door quietly. Three extra outfits, extra shirt, towel, toothbrush. “Wait lang. I’m packing my bag. Okay ba na matulog ako sa inyo or kina Clara tonight?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Basta bilisan mo.” 

Elias was right; Simoun was no longer coherent. About the only things Crisostomo could discern were his name and several swear words. Phone charger—he hesitated. “Dalhin ko ba laptop ko?”

“Dalhin mo na lang, di mo alam kung kailan ka puwedeng umuwi.”

Right. Laptop, charger, power bank… school bag? “Elias?”

“O?”

“I’ll drop my school bag. Can you catch it?” His hands only barely trembled as he reached for extra socks and slid the zipper shut. 

Elias chuckled. “Siyempre naman.” 

He had to shove hard to force the bag through the narrow space that he could open. “May incoming ka na dalawa.”

“Roger that.” 

He pushed the other bag through as well, and heard them caught, both through the phone and from his vantage point at the window. Wait. Shoes, shoes—Crisostomo’s heart skipped a beat when he realized he had no shoes in this room. The only ones he could see were Simoun’s: the black running shoes with the navy blue laces. Another crash resounded from outside, along with a shriek. 

Fuck it. 

He snatched them from beside Simoun’s desk and yanked them on, thankful for once that he and his brother shared a shoe size and that Simoun kept his laces tied all the time. “Ready.” 

Ending the call, he jammed his phone into his pocket and clambered out onto the fire escape. He tuned out the metallic snapping his weight made on the rungs as he half-climbed, half-fell down the ladder; only once he tried to put his foot down again and discovered flat ground did he realize that he’d gone all the way down. 

The next moment, Elias’s hands landed gently on his shoulders. “Oks ka?” 

Breathing hurt, his arm hurt—Crisostomo looked down and saw quarter-moon gouges in his skin, some of them already swelling. They'd be gone by this time tomorrow. “Yeah. Yeah. Can I sleep at your house?” 

“Of course. Tara, kung mabilis tayo baka maabutan pa natin ang pagkain.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry. And—I’m still dizzy.”

Elias guided him to the car and showed him the passenger side, waiting to see him get in before rounding to the other side and getting in himself. “Edi wow. Kumain ka kahit kaunti lang.”

A laugh escaped him despite himself. “Thanks talaga. I know this is just... fucked up.”

Elias flashed him a small smile as he revved the engine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias' surname is borrowed from the novel _Juanita Cruz_. Spoilers: the Elias Navarro in _Juanita Cruz_ is also a revolutionary; he joins the Katipunan and gets killed fighting. I'm lazy, so it seemed fitting enough. Also, that Elias Navarro's love interest also has the initials JC, haHA.
> 
> Also, yes, Simoun's first name is Rafael. I figured that he might as well be a junior, since he doesn't go by his first name, _and_ he's the older one. Sue me.
> 
> [In an earlier draft he was called Don. So really, Rafael is an upgrade.]


	3. a lilac sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is only right that the marks they leave on each other's skin are as deep as the marks they leave on each other's souls. 
> 
> (Slightly canon-divergent AU. Wherever any two people have skin to skin contact, they both leave a patch of color on the other person. Elias is so easily marked, he goes into a town for an hour and comes out with half a dozen new marks. Ibarra is only marked by two people.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is only _slightly_ canon-divergent, so there is still very much a **major character death** warning. It was inspired by the [Color Me](https://archiveofourown.org/series/183239) series by milou407. It's Johnlock and (I think) Mystrade. Go check it out.
> 
> Title comes from Halsey's "Colors". It seemed fitting. 
> 
> I'm still not completely satisfied with this, but since the scenes I wanted to include in it aren't working, I'll just post it so I can stop beating myself up over not finishing it.
> 
> EDIT 01/04/2020: while I was editing this, it got too long for one single chapter, so I decided to rework it and post it as a separate work once I've done that. just because I don't think the final version will bear too much resemblance to this one, I'll leave this chapter the way it is and link it in the final.

The last day of the fiesta dawned promising and happy; the day brought with it the laying of the cornerstone of Ibarra’s new school, and if the town of San Diego was not perfectly content, they at least donned some semblance of the garment to go to morning mass. Padre Damaso forgot his sermon and frightened Padre Martin. Padre Sibyla adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. 

Enough people filled the church for all to pay attention merely to the curate and to their own party or those seated near them, once they had noticed and pointed out the notable personages to one another; there was Capitan Tiago, there was his daughter, there was the alferez, there was Padre Martin. If ever a seatmate did not reply, the speaker huffily considered them rude or standoffish or unpious, and quickly found matters to attend to in the opposite direction. 

Elias did not find Ibarra immediately; his mestizo heritage only slightly showed on his face and made it easy for him to fade into a crowd dressed in suffocating fiesta clothes. At last he did, however, and by dint of nudging closer every other moment or so, finally found himself close enough to whisper his warning. 

“At the laying of the cornerstone, don’t move away from the curate, don’t go down into the trench, don’t go near the stone—your life depends upon it.” 

Ibarra turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Elias’s face. He was not fast enough to grab hold of the pilot’s arm before he disappeared back into the crowd, but Elias felt the reach of Ibarra’s hand and looked down to see a long blue streak up his forearm, along with a dozen other small swipes that he had no doubt obtained simply by being inside this church. 

He was glad, afterwards, that he followed Ibarra to the cornerstone-laying and met his eyes several times. He was very glad that he had chosen to wear his rough gloves, so that when he grabbed the yellowish man by the neck he left no color on it. 

As he walked out of Ibarra’s house at the end of their interview, his eyes were drawn to a bright patch of color on the outside of his arm; no wider than two fingerbreadths, already marred by two other faint streaks. It could not have resulted from anything other than an accidental touch, and yet the mark’s edges were sharp instead of blurred, and its striking blue color shone clear. 

* * *

The day he left for Batangas, he became conscious of an urge to try and repay the life debt some other way. It was true that the young ilustrado seemed to find himself in dangerous enough situations, but perhaps a more personal gratitude would be in order. When he discovered that the daughter of Capitan Tiago had been taken sick the day before, he realized that he had compounded enough reasons to call on his benefactor. 

When he was shown in, Ibarra was fiddling with pieces of bamboo and substances Elias could not be bothered to identify. He waited.

Ibarra finally turned around. “Ah, Elias, ikaw pala yan! Paumanhin na lang at pinaghintay kita, hindi ko napansin na ikaw ang pumasok.” He indicated his collection of jars, mixtures, and bamboo sticks. “May ginagawa kasi ako.” 

“It was no trouble,” Elias assured him. “I meant no disturbance. I came to ask you if there is anything I can do for you in Batangas, for which I am to leave at once, and also to bring you some bad news.” 

Ibarra questioned him with a look. 

“Capitan Tiago’s daughter is ill,” said he, quietly, “but not seriously.”

Ibarra sighed. “I feared as much. Do you know what ails her?”

“A fever.” He drew closer. Only when he was kneeling at the table, observing one of the bamboo solutions with a frown, did he remember why he had come. He rose. “Now, if you have nothing to request—”

“Thank you, my friend, no; I wish you a pleasant journey. But you can answer me a question here and now. If the answer is indiscreet, it is your right not to give it.” 

Elias nodded. 

“How were you able to quiet the disturbance last night?” 

“Very easily,” replied Elias. “The instigators were two brothers whose father was flogged to death by the _guardia civil._ Some time ago I rescued them from the same hands their father had fallen into, for which they are grateful to me. I found and appealed to them last night, and it was they who undertook to dissuade the rest.” 

“And those two brothers whose father was flogged to death—”

“Will end the same way he did,” Elias interrupted him, his tone dark. “When misfortune has once singled out a family all its members must perish—when lightning strikes a tree the whole is reduced to ashes.” 

Ibarra fell silent and looked at him searchingly. 

“Were you unfortunate, Elias?” 

He turned to leave, only to be caught about the wrist by a light, insistent hand. “You are always asking if you can do anything for me,” continued Ibarra from behind him. “Now it is my turn. Can I do anything for you?” 

“Not unless you can change the past,” he murmured, not without gentleness.

They were silent, but Ibarra did not release his hand. Elias closed his eyes and refused to look at anything. Ibarra’s hold did not loosen, but neither did it tighten; if Elias wished, he could likely pull out of it and leave. Every second seemed to dare him to do so, and yet every second he stayed still. 

At length, Ibarra said, “Did you know my father’s color was very similar to yours?”

He blinked. “What?” 

“My father was very affectionate, so I remember very well the color of his marks. They were a very deep red, as deep as are yours, but they tended more towards the shade of old red wine than the shade of roses.” _Roses._ What a peculiar comparison. Most people said _blood._

“When he died, I had not seen him for six years. His marks had long faded from my skin, just as mine had faded from his.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“I have tasted misfortune, Elias. If I am to help anyone in this country I must see how others have drunk of it. I know nothing about you, but I think you have seen much. I will not impose,” and here he let go, “but if there is anything I can do for you, let me know.” 

“I will, señor. Thank you.” 

* * *

Blue like freedom. Blue like peace. Blue like the sky overhead when the sun sets. That was Ibarra’s color, Elias decided in the end. The handprint on his wrist did not fade for two days. 

* * *

How could someone as hopeful as Ibarra be so blind? In him lay an uncomfortable reminder of Elias of younger days, and yet in Ibarra there was more than there had been in younger Elias. He had more power, there could be no doubt about that; no questionable past or shameful birth that could be used to force him back into a corner. He had more hope, he believed more in men than Elias had ever had cause to do. Why, then, was he so reluctant to _do_ anything? 

Why did _seeing_ repulse him so much? 

He has never been laid low, thought Elias bitterly. He has never known a victim of these evils personally; he has never loved any of them enough for their pain to be his own. 

Listening to him made Elias want to tear his hair out. And yet—somehow a certain quality gave his words an alluring conviction, a shining gild that wove illusions out of mere air. They were blind words, which infuriated him, but the faith Ibarra infused in them hurt him. If Ibarra ever realized the truth, he might never be able to put such faith in anything again, and such faith was rare enough in the first place. 

Elias believed in him as if belief could soften the blow that had been destined since Don Rafael Ibarra ignited the ire of Padre Damaso. 

* * *

Elias dashed along the road to Ibarra’s house and up the stairway. “Is your master home?” he called to a servant, hard-pressed to keep the exertion out of his voice. _Please let him be home, please, please_ —

“He’s in his study at work.” 

_Thank God._ “Thank you!” he called back over his shoulder as he bounded down the hall. He burst in, which did not faze Ibarra in the slightest; he only looked up for an instant with happy recognition in his eyes—his eyes, so bright, God willing, they would stay bright—

“Ah, is that you, Elias?” he exclaimed. “I was just thinking about you. Yesterday I forgot to ask you the name of that Spaniard in whose house your grandfather lived.”

 _What?_ Elias blinked. “Let us not talk about me, señor—”

“Look,” continued Ibarra, oblivious, holding a piece of bamboo over a flame. “I’ve made a discovery. This is incombustible, see!” 

He struggled to keep his thoughts straight, thoughts as wild as the frantic pound of his heart. Thank God that when he did find his voice and his words, they were firm and urgent. “It is not a question of bamboo now, señor, it is a question of your collecting your papers and fleeing this very moment.”

Only then did Ibarra properly look at him. What he saw there, Elias would never know, but he dropped his experiment. 

“Burn everything that might compromise you and get to safety within an hour.” Ibarra stared at him uncomprehendingly, silently. “If there is anything you cannot bear to destroy, take it with you—”

“Why?” 

“—and hide it somewhere safe. Burn every letter in your possession, whether by you or to you; the most innocent thing may be twisted against you—”

“But—why all this?” 

Elias heard him at last, and directed at him a look of consternation. “Why! Because I have gotten wind of a plot that is to be given your name, to complete your ruination!” 

“A—a plot? Who is forming it?”

“I have not been able to discover its author, but just a moment ago I spoke with one of the poor dupes paid to carry it out, and I was not able to dissuade him.” 

“He—he did not say who was paying him?” 

“Yes! Under a pledge of secrecy he said it was _you_!” 

Now their situations were reversed; it was Ibarra whose thoughts were wild with terror and Elias whose spirit blazed with calm purpose. “My God!” cried the young man, turning pale. 

“There can be no doubt of it, señor. Lose no time, for the plot will probably be carried out this very night. The blow cannot be averted. I came late, I know nothing about who the leaders are, I can do nothing but help you save yourself.” Ibarra seemed not to hear him, his head in his hands and his eyes wide and glassy. “Do you hear me? You must save yourself, for your country’s sake!” 

“Where could I go? She expects me tonight!”

“To any town whatsoever, to Manila, to some official’s house, anywhere that could make directing this movement impossible.” 

Ibarra frowned, some distance in his expression still. “Suppose I myself report the plot?”

“You an informer!” _Are you insane or merely too innocent to live?_ “Do you understand me? There is nothing to be done about your name’s connection to it. With luck they will discover your innocence later. If you turned informer now they would call you a coward, a traitor, God knows what else.” 

“Then what can I do?” 

He sighed with frustration and yanked Ibarra to his feet. “I have already told you: destroy any documents pertaining to your affairs, fly, and await the outcome.”

“And Maria Clara?” cried Ibarra desperately. “No, I’ll die first!” 

Elias drew back and wrung his hands. If only he could shake him to sense! Alas, Ibarra was torn, and he could not blame him—love was a devil indeed. “Well then, at least parry the blow. Prepare for when they inevitably accuse you.” 

Ibarra gazed about himself in bewilderment. “Then help me.”

“Anything.”

“There in the writing-desk are all the letters of my family. I need you to find my father’s, which are perhaps the ones that are most likely to be used against me. Read the signatures.” 

Quickly they went to work, opening and shutting boxes, collecting papers, skimming letters to decide which to destroy on the spot and which to lay aside. Elias scanned the outsides of the letters for the names of Crisostomo and Rafael Ibarra, though sometimes it was necessary to check the signatures as Ibarra had instructed. Don Rafael Ibarra—Don Crisostomo Ibarra—Don Saturnino with a name too damaged to read—Don Rafael Ibarra—

_Don Pedro Eibarramendia._

He froze and stared at the paper. No matter how much he turned it over and over, the damning name did not change. 

_Don Pedro Eibarramendia._

“Was your family acquainted with Don Pedro Eibarramendia?” Was it him who asked? His head seemed stuffed full of cloth, his ears full of insects. 

“I should say so!” replied Ibarra, as he opened a chest and took out a bundle of papers, “he was my great-grandfather.” So nonchalant, so unaware of the fatal answer he had given. The image of his poor father flashed before Elias’ eyes as crimson melted into the edge of his vision. 

“Your great-grandfather—Don Pedro Eibarramendia?” 

“Yes,” said Ibarra absently, flipping through the papers, “we shortened the surname; it was too long.” 

_It can’t be, it can’t be_ — _he is_ —“Was he a Basque?” he heard himself demand. 

“Yes, he was—but what’s the matter?”

Finally, finally, Ibarra had heard his tone, had seen his face. 

He lunged at Ibarra, who was not fast enough to avoid him. “Do you know who Pedro Eibarramendia was?” he demanded between his teeth. His hand slipped up; the mark it revealed was red, blood red, damning blood red. 

_How could you?_

“It was _he_ who falsely accused my grandfather, it was he who caused all my family’s misfortunes. I have wandered the earth in search of that name and here, finally, God shows it to me! Will you _now_ render me an accounting for our suffering?” 

He seized the other arm of Pedro Eibarramendia’s descendant and glared full into his face. His voice shook with hatred and bitterness. “Look at me well, look at me and see if I have suffered, and you live, you love; you have a fortune, a home, a reputation—you live, you live!” 

The gleam of a dagger from a nearby collection of arms sparked something in his fevered brain. He was there, he snatched it up, he turned around—and then he saw the terror in Ibarra’s eyes, the livid crimson brands on his arms. The man who had saved his life lay motionless, the eyes that had seen him with such joy minutes before now pinned on him with bone-deep fear. 

He raised the knife again. 

There was a blue mark on his hand. 

He lost his nerve. 

* * *

He must have run for an eternity, though it seemed almost a moment, for when he finally noticed what his eyes were seeing he was deep in the forest. And yet he was not deep enough, because the moon’s light still revealed to him the blue marks left by Ibarra, by the heir of his family’s undoing. Scrubbing the tears from his eyes fruitlessly, he ran further.

_It does not matter where I go, as long as it is away from him._

He had been right there, he had the knife in his hand and his prey frozen with fear within his reach—

Why had he lost his nerve?

Elias slowed down, stumbled to a stop. He should go back and finish what he had started. He should go back and do what he had longed to do since he had first heard the story of his inheritance of misery. He should go back—

—and put out the light in the eyes he had so believed in. 

—and tear out the heart that still had faith in men he had long given up as lost.

—and banish to the land of the dead the smile he himself had so often rejoiced to see. 

—and erase from everyone Ibarra had ever touched the blue of freedom and hope. 

His feet refused to retrace their steps.

What was wrong with him? 

_Ibarra has been my undoing as well._

What had he done? 

He had run away; when finally his family was to have their satisfaction, he had faltered and fled, _like a damn coward._

And even as hatred burned in his heart for the descendant of his family’s denouncer, he could not bring himself to turn back and find him again for the sake of his family’s vengeance. Instead he ran headlong into the forest, his imagination painting a skeleton hanging in every shadow, a corpse lying in every bush, a head in its basket swinging from every branch—all of them compounding the howl in his head of _Coward!_

God! How was he to quiet his soul? 

_Coward! Traitor! Wretch! Bastard!_

Salome!

Fighting to keep hold of the thought of his friend, he left the hill and ran along the shore. 

_Ingrate! Coward!_

It was then that he saw the specter of his sister lying on the water, her chest bloody and her hair loose, simultaneously despairing and accusing. 

_Coward!_

Before his eyes flashed days, weeks of his sister withering before him, of himself coaxing her to eat, to entertain herself, to do anything except sit and stare at the white marks on her hands. 

_Useless wretch!_

Her scarlet marks faded from his skin five months before he learned of her fate. 

_Traitor!_

She could have lived happy and prosperous had he not, in his youthful arrogance and impulsivity, stepped out of his place. 

_Coward! Traitor! Weakling—_

_Bang._

The sound of guns overpowered the clamor in his head. He was chest-deep in the lake, the lights of the fishermen’s huts winking before him like so many earthbound stars. 

His eyes stung.

He splashed his face with hands stained blue by touch and silver by the moonlit water, and turned back at last. On his way through the town, he might have shivered from the cold, but he paid no mind to it: the moonlight illuminated deathly silent, empty streets. If the _guardia civil_ were about, he would be clearly visible. 

He streaked through yards and gardens, leaping over fences and walls. By the time he had reached Ibarra’s house dirt covered him in great swaths and his camisa was no longer dripping. 

There was still light in the study. 

He crawled in through the window, but Ibarra was not there. What was lay clustered on the table in clear preparation for flight: books and papers were piled on one side, while jewels, sacks which contained money when Elias examined them, and weapons were piled on the other. One of the revolvers was primed and loaded; Elias envisioned Ibarra looking towards the window, eyes gleaming, revolver in hand, before sighing and putting it down. Somehow the image pleased him. 

These would be useless to Ibarra now. In fact, they would be very useful to his enemies as proof of his malice, not to mention that the papers were of a very compromising nature. He would burn them if he had a fire, but the fireplace was dead. The next best thing would be to bury them.

He glanced towards the street and what he saw stopped his heart. 

Two guards marched towards the house, bayonets and caps glinting in the moonlight.

He was out of time. 

In desperation he threw the papers and some clothing he found into a heap in the middle of the room, pouring oil onto it from a lamp and setting fire to the lot. He thrust what weapons he could carry into his belt and was in the process of unloading the revolver when he caught sight of the portrait of Maria Clara. 

Ibarra had obviously wanted to bring it. 

Why not?

He placed it into one of the sacks. Gripping all of them tightly, he climbed out of the window and leaped into the garden, heading straight for the forest without looking back. 

* * *

Ibarra moved like a pale, ghostly puppet as he was hauled roughly out of his cell and marched towards the exit. Even in the open night air, outside, he trudged along like a body with no soul, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped, until the iron grip of the guard came loose to reveal a crimson splotch just above his elbow. He looked up in shock. 

Elias winked at him from the darkest corner of the garden. “Every night, at this time, this place is clear of guards for a period of fifteen minutes. Quickly, señor.”

The dead eyes filled with light again and the lips curled into a smile as Ibarra cried, in a voice soft with disbelief, “Elias!” In the space between one breath and the next Ibarra surged forward, seized his hand, and clasped it tightly, gazing at the matching marks on their palms with bewildered pleasure. “Elias!”

Painfully aware of every wasted second, painfully thrilled by Ibarra’s joy, he nodded. “Ibarra.”

When Ibarra’s eyes met his, he saw with dismay that they glinted with unshed tears. “I can never repay you for this, my friend.” 

“Since we are friends,” he replied, showing him the fading blue mark from the night of the arrest, “you have no need to.” He heard a wet laugh behind him as they ducked through the gate and the darkened corners of the capital to the river, where a banka loaded with alibi waited for them. 

“We will have to return to San Diego,” he murmured, thinking of the valuables he had buried under the balete near the grave of Don Pedro. 

“Yes,” replied Ibarra, though doubtless for different reasons. He stared wide-eyed at the sleeping houses all around them as Elias rowed quickly to leave them behind, his haggard face almost too thin to bear the strength of his expression. He drank in his surroundings, as if he had not strolled nonchalantly in the heart of this city at its liveliest, as if he had not seen moonlight on the water a million times, as if he had not walked unconcerned under the stars every night he had been alive, as if—

As if he had thought he might never see them again.

_Oh._

He opened his mouth—what he would have said, he had no idea—but Ibarra spoke first.

“How did you find me?”

Elias looked askance at him. Surely he must know that the arrests and transfers had affected more people than him—the families of the others arrested, if no one else? Then he realized that Ibarra had put his head in his hands and begun shaking. 

Ibarra was begging for a distraction. 

So he spared no details. He commenced the tale where they had parted ways (“I apologize for what I was about to do, señor.” “Ah”—with a smile—“am I _señor_ again so quickly? You have nothing to apologize for.”), only briefly described his frenzied flight through the forest from what little he remembered of it himself (“Now it is my turn to apologize. I never meant to cause you pain.”), mentioned what he had heard in town, including the news of Maria Clara’s engagement, told some anecdotes of his journey to Manila, reconstructed the nights he staked out the prison in which Ibarra was detained (“You have both talent and dedication. Thank you again.”—to which Elias had no reply) and concluded with his infiltration of the prison. His listener never looked up once. 

“Truly,” said Ibarra, “I can never thank you enough. You have every reason to hate me, and yet you were the only one who helped me when I needed it. Indeed, you are still helping me.” 

“You give me hope,” said Elias. The words rang true, and he realized belatedly how right he was. “I could not simply let you die.” 

“ _I_ give _you_ hope?” Ibarra’s voice danced at the edges with dark amusement. “Do I?”

“Of course you do.” 

Suddenly the tone soured into reproach. “How can you say that? I accomplished nothing. I disgraced myself. I disgraced my friends. I would be dead this time tomorrow if you had not come to save me; in fact, the only reason I am not already dead is you—and you say I give you hope!” Ibarra’s fingers clutched convulsively at his hair. “Perhaps you should have left me there to die.” 

The sight of Ibarra’s despair left a bitter taste in his mouth. He averted his eyes and rowed silently on in the direction of the Binondo River, even as he longed to comfort his friend. 

If Maria Clara could not lift his spirits, then nothing could.

* * *

Elias looked down at the young man hidden in the zacate at the bottom of the boat. “Do you know how to manage a banka?” 

Ibarra frowned. “Yes, why?”

“Because we are lost if I do not jump into the water and throw them off the track. They will no doubt pursue me, but I swim and dive well.” _And you do not._ “I shall draw them away from you, and then you can save yourself.”

“No!” Ibarra almost sat up, gripping Elias’s ankle as if to anchor him to the banka with a hand alone. “Stay here, and let us sell our lives dearly!” 

“That would be useless,” said Elias, almost smiling. “We are unarmed, and with their rifles they could shoot us down like birds.” As if to confirm his words, a bullet struck the water near them as the report of the gun that fired it resounded over the lake. “You see!” He tucked the paddle beside Ibarra in the bottom of the banka. “Meet me on Christmas Eve at the tomb of your grandfather.” At Ibarra’s mutinous look, he added firmly, “ _Save yourself._ ”

“And you?” 

“God has guided me safely through greater dangers.” As he removed his camisa a bullet tore it from his fingers, jolting him into a curiously still frame of mind that brightened the colors of even the dim night. He braced himself and leaned down to clasp Ibarra’s hand one more time.

Once he was sure that the deep blue splotches on his own skin, and the crimson prints on Ibarra’s, would last several days, he took Ibarra’s hand by the wrist, and gently laid it on his cheek. Then he rose and leaped into the water, his dive giving the banka an almighty shove in the opposite direction. 

_If you love me, don’t move._

His eyes tingled with the curious sensation of water, and he dared not put his head above the surface for longer than two seconds. He swam deeper and deeper so as not to leave quite so obvious a track, but this tired him faster. _It hardly signifies. As long as I can get them away from him—_

Ten yards. Ten yards. He could do that. 

As he surfaced to breathe for the last time, his lungs stung with the amount of air he inhaled. Then he dove as deep as he could and made for a disused fish pen on the far left of the guard bankas. 

Something hurt. 

He’d been shot. He struck out harder and surfaced in the darkest corner of the fish pen gasping and sputtering. Even after he had blinked the water out of his eyes, the blood in the water from his wound looked minimal. 

He would not die yet. He had time. 

* * *

Crimson marks still stood out on Ibarra’s skin when he found Elias’s final resting place. They would not fade for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm cruel. 
> 
> Some small worldbuilding notes:
> 
> The marks are symbolic of the way people affect each other; this is why the marks of friends and lovers will be more vivid and last longer than those of random passersby. But they're also symbolic of the way people allow themselves to _be_ affected by others: Elias is marked very easily because he cares very much, though there _is_ a limit to how long certain marks—say, from a stranger—can last. (Yes, I did this because milou407 did this to their John, and it's brilliant, okay.) After his father's death, Ibarra doesn't get any marks that last longer than a few hours from anyone other than Maria Clara and Elias. I tried to make it clear that it's very rare for marks to last after the person who left them has died—but not impossible, hence the last line. Elias made such an impact on Ibarra that he left marks that didn't fade even after he had passed on. 
> 
> And yes, I totally ripped off that last scene with Elias and Ibarra in the boat from the scene in the third fic of the series where Mycroft makes sure his last marks are from Sherlock.
> 
> EDIT 14/03/2020: added the scene of Elias's flight and the scene of the escape; altered word choice here and there.


	4. our twilight universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ibarra watches Elias's ruination. 
> 
> (Canon-divergent AU. Ibarra and his father live in Tayabas, and one day he stumbled across a lonely boy and his twin sister. He will never regret forming that friendship.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this isn't finished. Not even close. But I'm going to put it here because this is as close as I can get it and my patience is dangerously thin. 
> 
> Even I don't know where the worldbuilding for this plot bunny is, it just attacked me out of nowhere and wouldn't let go.
> 
> Warning for language, even if it is only one S-word, in Spanish. (M-word, then?)
> 
> Title is an out-of-context snippet from _The Great Gatsby_.

The twilight came on chilly and brisk, the sun lingering watchfully at the edge of the horizon as Elias strode home, trembling with fury. He was done. He was done with this town and he was glad he and the family he had left would leave it forever in a few hours. They could all go to hell and he would laugh as he dragged them there. 

“Navarro!” 

His blood turned to lightning and ice. 

_Mierda._

He turned around.

Yes, it was Ibarra. 

His heart gave a bitter twist at the sight of his friend. Two days ago they both had been young, rich, happy, and loved; in the wake of the unwanted revelations that had upended Elias’s life, Ibarra remained unchanged, as if to mock him. Now that everything they had built their friendship on was unveiled as a lie, a gulf yawned between them that Elias felt no desire to bridge. “Ibarra.” 

An unusually opaque expression had settled on Ibarra’s frank, pleasant face, and he refused to meet Elias’s eyes. “I talked to your sister just now and she said you are all to be leaving tonight with your—father?” 

“What she says is true.”

“Your _father_?” 

Elias turned away. “Surely you have heard something.” 

“I have heard much, but I would rather hear it from you.” 

“And for what?” he growled. “What do you want of me that rumors cannot give you?” _And why do you think you can simply run after me and demand that I entertain you?_

“I am your friend,” came the hesitant answer. “I hoped I could help you.” 

He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Where were you, then? I thought you would have sought me out during the worst days of my life, if you were my friend. Would you have me relive it, by telling it to you? Thoughtless as you are, this is beneath you.”

He tried to take advantage of the stunned silence behind him to move, but a surprisingly firm hand landed on his shoulder. “Forgive me. If this is the last time we are ever to speak, I want it to end amicably. You need not say anything about what happened if you would really rather not. Only tell me what it is I can do to help.” 

Elias’s pride smarted. “Leave me alone, then,” he snarled, shaking out of Ibarra’s grip and trying to leave again. Ibarra stopped him again, this time without speaking. 

A gust of wind whistled past them and shook the boughs of the trees nearby with a loud _shh-hh-shhh._ It chilled the tips of his fingers, the edges of his shoulders, the shells of his ears—all except the part of his back under Ibarra’s hand. 

“I would rather not.” Ibarra’s voice softened to a breeze, gentle as the restraining fingers on his shoulder. “Would that really help you?” 

He thought of the whispers, the stares, the undisguised interest in their eyes when they spoke to him. Ibarra approached him as he always had. If he felt similarly, he had yet to show it. This evening could have been any other evening, except for Elias’s frightfully, painfully clear memory of the past two days and Ibarra’s conspicuous absence during all of it. This evening could have been any evening last week, when their joy went untainted by bitterness. Even now, resentful as he was, he found that he was happy Ibarra had come for him in the end. He was glad Ibarra was still his friend. And now he would not have to say goodbye to the town before saying goodbye to Ibarra. “No.”

He was gently turned to face Ibarra. “What will?” 

“I don’t know.” 

They were silent until they could see each other’s faces only in what faint light reached them from Elias’s house, but neither of them moved away. Finally Ibarra stirred. “My father is thinking of sending me to Europe,” he said. 

Elias inclined his head. “What about that?” 

“I do want to go, but in the wake of recent events I am more conflicted about it than I was before. It seems… wrong, to be enjoying my own good fortune when yours has left you.”

“I am not the only unfortunate in the world,” said Elias, sharply. _And yet even misfortune’s favorites laugh at me._

“Is that supposed to encourage me?” said his friend, with an unfamiliar, peculiar twist in his voice. “Yesterday, I bumped into a young woman who struggles to provide for her little brother, now that their older brother has been beaten to death. She asked for my help—I don’t think she knew me, she was half-crazy with desperation. Do you know what she did when I gave her some of what I had with me?” 

For the first time in three days, Ibarra raised his face so Elias could see his eyes. Something strange lurked behind them, something cracked and golden. “She wept. I did not even touch what I would need to buy the thing I wanted.” 

Something in Elias’ soul splintered. 

Before he could think better of it, he said, “Come with us.”


	5. pillow talk (the lost ones in the night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elias finds himself in the awkward position of wanting to help a friend with his own fragile stability hanging in the balance. 
> 
> (Modern AU. Crisostomo and Elias live together and occasionally show up to bother Simoun into self-care.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd indicate Elibarra in the opening notes, so here's your indication. **this one-shot is Elibarra!**
> 
> I mean, really though. it's literally titled _pillow talk_. there's kissing, cuddling, and three-words-ing here, in case you wanted to know. 
> 
> 'the lost ones in the night' is a reference to Kayla Diamond's song _Carnival Hearts_ which was playing on repeat while I prepped this for AO3. I like it. you might want to listen to it? 
> 
> **short briefing** : if you don't remember the specifics of Pablo's story (which is told by the man himself in Chapter 45), congratulations, I didn't either, I had to consult the English translation to write this lmao. the basics are that a powerful man dishonored Pablo's daughter, and even though Pablo himself didn't want to rock the boat, his sons were outraged and very outspoken about it. the result of that was that the two boys were harassed and tortured; one died from inflicted injuries and the other was driven to suicide.

The crack of someone opening the door roused Elias from his restless, shallow slumber.

Crisostomo stepped across to the aparador, shedding clothes as he went. When he had wrestled himself into a ratty shirt and shorts and his mess into the laundry basket, he slid into the warm hollow on the bed with a sigh.

Elias turned and slung an arm around him; he smelled like the desk in the den. “Hi.” 

A smile caught the hallway light around the neglected door. “Gising ka pa? Ano ba, alas dos na.” 

“Ikaw kaya,” he murmured into damp dark hair. “Mister May-Isa-Pa-Akong-Gagawin.” 

Crisostomo yawned. “May narinig ka na ba?” 

“Mm.” He frowned at the bright glare. Only six months—when he’d been with them, hiding in their house, Abril had barely been out of high school, sandwiched between Rodrigo and Miguel in age and on the couch, giggling at telenovelas. Pablo must be devastated. “Punta sana ako bukas.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Crisostomo retorted, rolling sideways and stumbling upright to close that damn door. 

“Sabi ni Salome baka nasa Batangas na siya. Kung tama siya, mas matatagalan ako.” 

“Hingi ako ng leave, samahan kita. Ako driver.” 

“Magugulo ang pinaghihirapan mo na yun.” 

“Edi wow, si Simoun naman yung isa dun.” 

Elias made a dubious noise. Crisostomo’s brother haunted Manila like an overworked zombie, partly because his job wore him out too much to go anywhere, and partly because old Don Rafael still hadn’t forgiven his elder son for that turbulent period in his late teens when nobody was sure he’d live to make anything of himself. _Let it go._ “Baka matakot siya sa yo.” 

“Now I know you’re joking.” 

“Wag ka, I’m not. Di ka niya kilala, wasak na buhay niya. Basta hindi ko alam kung ano mangyayari kung kasama mo ako.”

Crisostomo sighed and buried his nose in Elias’s neck. “Okay. Sure ka?” 

“No; that’s the _point._ ” 

“Kung feeling mo mas mabuti…”

That was the problem. _He’d_ love to drag Crisostomo to Batangas with him, but Pablo might not like his presence, and it was too much to gamble on. “Ako na lang, mag-isa. Sa susunod, sama ka, promise.” 

“Wala akong pake, basta kung ano kailangan.” Crisostomo kissed his jaw soothingly. “Tulog ka muna, ayusin na lang natin sa umaga.” 

As the slats of moonlight receded, Elias wished it was that easy. 

* * *

“You sure gusto mo pumunta mag-isa?” 

Elias glanced over his shoulder at Crisostomo exasperatedly, even if he could barely see anything, since he’d been the last one inside and so had actually closed the door fully the first time. “Ilang beses na ba ang tanong na yan?” 

“Anim lang, and considering never ka naman sumasagot, I’d say that’s fair.”

“Weh? Sinagot na kita, a.” 

Crisostomo scoffed. 

Elias frowned at him. “Ikaw nga, sigurado ka ba na anim lang? Nakasampu ka na ata!” He turned and expertly tucked his feet in the hollow behind Crisostomo’s knees—and grinned smugly when the yelp came. 

“Putang— _Elias!_ ” He got a light kick to the shin, but he didn’t move. “Di ako kumot, ano ka—”

“Tao po ako,” he answered sweetly, rewarded for his shamelessness when Crisostomo clung to his back and gave him a sharp nip on the ear. 

A sigh warmed his shoulder just when he thought they’d let it go. “Seriously. Sure ka?” 

He slid his fingers between Crisostomo’s. “Hindi ko nga alam—”

“—kung ano magiging reaksyon ni Pablo, sinabi mo na yan,” Crisostomo cut in impatiently. “Tinatanong ko kung ano gusto _mo._ Wala ka pang sagot dyan.” 

Elias had the good sense to know he was cornered. “Alam mo na yan.”

“Baka hindi ko alam. Baka gusto ko umamin ka. Baka gusto ko lang malaman—kung bakit kailangan kong manatili dito kahit—gusto natin pareho na sumama ako sa yo.” Crisostomo’s struggle with the words made Elias frown; almost fifteen years after they first met and he only really fumbled his Tagalog when something upset him. 

“Talagang natataob ka, no?”

“That’s right.” Crisostomo’s tone had gone steely. “I’m upset, and you’re a fucking hypocrite.” 

That was more than enough to stun Elias into silence. He waited for Crisostomo to either extricate himself or explain, but he did neither. Slowly, Elias flipped onto his other side and tried to look at Crisostomo, who escaped the attempts by burying his face in Elias’s chest. 

“O, ano na ba to?” 

He stayed silent so long Elias thought he might have fallen asleep, and came close to dozing off himself, jolting awake when Crisostomo took a deep breath. 

“Tama ka, alam ko kung bakit hindi ako sasama,” he said, quietly. “That’s not what’s bothering me. Sinabi ko nga na wala akong pakialam, diba?” He shifted restlessly, as if debating about what to say next. “Medyo—medyo napikon lang ako, okay? Ayaw mo kasi aminin… tapos nagpapanggap ka na parang wala akong dahilan mag-alala. Parang ako lang ang dapat mong asikasuhin.” He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a huff. “Pareho kayo ni Simoun, kaya mabilis akong nainis.” 

Elias winced guiltily; he’d told Simoun about the whole thing earlier. “I’m sorry.” 

Crisostomo pulled him closer. “Ano ba magagawa ko?” 

* * *

Even at 6 AM on the morning he left, there was enough light to make out the dense gray blanket of sky through the window, if only just. Elias wriggled out of Crisostomo’s koala-hold, flipped a pillow on the spot where he’d been, and splashed himself awake in the bathroom. A bath and a shave later, scrubbing ruthlessly at his wet hair, he left his shirt off and pulled on everything else. No sense getting it damp. 

By the time he’d checked everything over and sneaked half of the batch of pandesal into his things, most of the dripping wet had gone out of his hair and Crisostomo was beginning to snuffle. He poked his head through his shirt and went to silence the alarm. 

“Matulog ka ulit,” he told him. “Madaling-araw pa lang.” 

Crisostomo sat up drowsily, groped under his pillow and tossed something at him. Startled, he almost missed it. “Muntik mo na naman makalimutan yung car key, gago.” 

“Akala ko magko-commute ako? Walang parking a.” 

Crisostomo peered at the overcast sky. “Sure ka? Looks like rain.” He tilted his head. “Sounds like it, too.” Indeed, small raps burst at the window one after the other. If it wasn’t really raining yet, it would soon. 

“Hindi ako yung mataray sa basa.” 

“Ugh, bahala ka,” he groaned, burrowing back into the pillows as he reached for the abandoned blanket and threw it over himself. “Kung gusto mo lang.” 

Elias picked it off his head and brushed back the tangled dark hair to press an apologetic kiss to the cheek underneath. “Di ko sinadya na parang galit. Tatawagan kita mamaya?” 

“Not just later,” he said, almost petulantly. “Araw-araw, kung kaya mo.” 

“Kung kaya ko,” he agreed. He felt around for Crisostomo’s phone, snorting when he found it snarled in the blanket. _Careless._ “Matulog ka, seryoso.” 

“Ikaw nga ang gusto ng early start at mag-isa,” Crisostomo muttered, “tapos nanggugulo ka pa sakin. Ano yan, second thoughts?” 

Shaking his head, Elias bent and kissed him.

“Kagigising ko lang, ano ka _ba_ ,” Crisostomo whispered, a note of laughter in his voice and his eyes, of all irresistible things. 

“Kakaligo ko lang, wala ka namang reklamo,” he countered. 

Crisostomo gave him one last, quick kiss. “Mahal kita,” he said, softly. “Ingat.”

Despite the rain, Elias left the car key beside Crisostomo’s phone on the desk. Minutes after the front door shut behind him, as its owner slipped deeper into sleep, the latter pinged with a text: _Mahal din kita._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in canon, as far as I know, Pablo never mentioned the names of his children, but since Elias stayed with them for a while I figured he'd know. 
> 
> (Rodrigo is the eldest; Elias specifically informed Simoun about _his_ death, because he was the one who committed suicide, and in a very horrific way at that, which Elias was worried about because Simoun also tried to commit suicide when he was younger (if you caught the implication) and isn't completely out of the woods yet. Abril is the middle child; she disappeared, and while Elias tracks down Pablo, Salome is trying to locate Abril. Miguel is the youngest, and he is the one who died from inflicted injuries. I imagine he was arrested on a fabricated charge and was either killed in prison or in the process of the arrest. look, this is fucked up, but so is this country lmao.)


	6. a simulacrum of companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elias lives with far too many ghosts already, so what's a spirit going to hurt? 
> 
> (Supernatural Creature AU. Elias is a man feeling out a reality that doesn't have his sister in it. Ibarra is... something else.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is intentionally not the whole story, since I do want to add onto this universe later on. I don't know how many parts this might have—as many as I like, I guess. sorry if this is all a little vague, but I don't want to have to retcon too much if I do end up fleshing things out. 
> 
> title comes from the podcast _Welcome to Night Vale_ , Episode 23, "Eternal Scouts."

Elias doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating or dreaming. 

For the record, his dreams are usually a lot less intriguing and a lot more disturbing than this. 

The thing sitting on a grave like people do it all day is shaped like a person—shaped, in fact, like a very handsome person whose age is within a decade of Elias’s own thirty-two. But the ears framed by the wavy dark hair have pointed tips, and the tattoos snaking up the bare arms and curling around one sightless dark eye glow faintly in the twilight. As he watches, the tip of a pink tongue flicks out between sharp white teeth and just as quickly disappears. 

The thing makes a clicking noise and frowns up at him. “What. The fuck.” 

**_Lord,_ ** _that voice._ Elias swallows a surprised, mortified laugh and makes a grab for his filter. He’s only mildly successful. “Masasabi ko rin yan, a. Sino ka?” 

It’s shivering. Is it… cold? It raises an eyebrow. “That’s an odd question.” 

“Ne?” Should he offer his jacket? His hand twitches before he realizes it might see the gesture as rude. “Paano?” 

“I’ve never been asked that question before. I have no idea how to answer it.” 

“ _Weh?_ ”

It shrugs and shifts, curling into a ball and locking its arms around its knees. He can see the tattoos more clearly now: a serpent—he can’t rightly call it a simple snake—with fins fanning out from either side of its head on one arm, and a four-winged lawin on the other. “Ikaw? Sino ka?” 

He stalls. A lot of fairytales warn their readers not to give a fairy a real name, not ever. And while this thing might not be a fairy, it sure isn’t human, as the pale yellow eye following his motions reminds him. With its slight luminosity and slit pupil, that eye unnerves him more than the one that has no pupil or sclera whatsoever. “Talagang hindi mo ba alam kung paano sagutin ang ‘sino ka’? Wala ka bang pangalan?” 

It glares at the space between its feet. “Of course not.” 

His brain blanks for a moment. “ _Ano?_ ”

“Ah. I take it that’s not normal out here, then.” 

“Ano yan? Ilang taon ka na ba at walang pangalan? Ano’ng tawag sa yo, ‘Hoy’?” 

It bristles, and for a moment he thinks the sun on its temple glows a bit brighter. He blinks and the glow is back to barely-there. “I don’t actually know how old I am, in your terms. I’m young, in mine—certainly too young to handle the responsibility of a name of my own.” 

“Ano’ng ibig sabihin nyan?” 

Its eyes—one darker than void, one paler than sunrise—snap to his in surprise. “Is a name really such a throwaway thing for you out here?” 

He almost says that he’s wondered the same thing a lot. Why do people say _don’t talk to strangers_ but expect you to talk to strange people all the time? Why do stores that don’t need the customer to pick up the order themselves ask for a name? He bites it back, though, and offers a shrug. “Ewan ko. Baka nga.” 

“Ikaw, may panglan ka ba?” 

“Syempre naman.” _I’m not telling it to you, though._

The thing frowns. Is it just him, or are the stars crowning its brow… twinkling? “But you look no older than me, and I won’t have a name for at least another five years. Do you really get names so young?” It shudders visibly. “Maybe I don’t want to know.” 

Elias wants to laugh. He tries not to smile. “May palayaw ka ba?” 

“How else would people refer to me?” it sniffs.

He does smile. “So ano yun?” 

The spirit—there’s nothing else it can be—tilts its head back and studies him thoughtfully. The eyes hood and the teeth gleam and Elias thinks of hunger. “Why don't you give me a new one?” 

Well, fine. 

He strolls a circuit around the spirit and the grave it’s sitting on. The spirit sits up and watches him; somehow it feels less like a monster stalking him in the dark than like a curious cat padding after him in the street. He catches sight of faded letters and snaps his fingers. “Ibarra. Puwede ba yan?” 

The spirit’s dark eye flashes bright white for one second. Elias jumps backward, but it hums in thought like nothing happened. “Why that one?” 

“Nakaupo ka sa libingan ng isang Ibarra,” he says. “Sa kanila nga dati ang lupa na to.” And the tree he summoned the spirit out of, actually. Of course, it doesn’t belong to them anymore—the last one died over a hundred years ago—but they’re the owners everyone remembers. The spirit absorbs this in silence. Moonlight infuses the sun and the star tattoos with smoldering radiance, and all of that comes out of its mouth in two charged words. 

“I accept,” says Ibarra. 

* * *

The windows are open; the light coming in through them mingles stars and streetlamps and vanishes into the void of Ibarra’s dark eye regardless of where it came from. The spirit himself—who clarified his pronouns on the walk home—sits on Elias’s desk, swinging his legs, looking for all the world like a curious toddler at the doctor’s office, watching as his host unpacks box after box. 

“Huwag kang lumabas sa kwarto na to maliban kung sabihin ko na puwede,” Elias orders, as he folds his shirts and slips them in their shelf. He doesn’t notice that he’s forgotten to pluralize the pronoun. Fortunately, his guest doesn’t seem to mind. “At kung sabihin ko kahit kailan na kailangan mong bumalik dito, sundin mo ako kaagad.” 

Ibarra turns his head just enough to fix him with the full force of the yellow eye’s stare. “Why don’t you want them to see me?” 

“Nakikita mo ba ang sarili mo kumpara sakin?” His voice twists with sarcasm. “ _Medyo_ naiiba ang itsura mo sa itsura ko, at karamihan sa mga tao dito ay mas kamukha ko kaysa mo.” He shoves the trunk of books into its place beside the aparador harder than he needs to. It slides home with a thunk and he sits back on his heels. “Kung payagan kitang gumala, siguradong may kapitbahay na makakakita sa yo at matatakot.” 

“I’d be careful.” 

“Mag-ingat ka nga, sa loob ng silid na to.” He turns just in time to see Ibarra’s snarl, there and gone, a baring of teeth that could tear him apart and look like it. It thrills him. His heart pounds in his ears as, on his way to the next box, he leans over and boops the annoyed-looking spirit on the nose. 

Ibarra is undoubtedly quick enough to rend Elias limb from limb, but instead he smiles toothily and does not bite. His eyes glint. “What if I do this?” he asks, just as he shuts them. 

When he opens them again, they are a warm cappuccino hazel. With his ears hidden in the whorls of his hair, he looks so suddenly, innocuously human that Elias’s heart speeds up. Maybe he senses it, because the tattoo around his eye twists in amusement, and the illusion shatters. 

“Kaya mo bang itigil yan?” Elias indicates the shifting lines. 

“Oh, sure.” Ibarra smiles wider, and his tattoo stops moving. Those sharp teeth are less than an inch from Elias’s fingers, but he is not afraid. “Can I go outside now?” 

“Habang ganyan ka, siguro,” he says. “Deal?” 

The sun at Ibarra’s temple pulses. “Deal.” He looks oddly serious, and, for a moment, oddly lovely. 

Elias goes back to his unpacking. 

He has to blow dust off a lot of the things—the move back was messy, and he wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind. The next box contains the things that used to live on his desk in his dorm and snares the breath in his chest. Time has faded the paint on the repurposed can pencil holder and the colors of the pictures in their frames. He can remember when they were bright. 

They look sad, now.

“Are you okay?” asks a voice. 

Elias startles and looks up. Ibarra’s mismatched eyes reflect his hollowness back at him. 

“Yeah,” he says. It’s not lying if you don’t know what the truth is. “Ano’ng gusto mo kainin?” 

Ibarra only scowls and says nothing, his face tattoo wriggling agitatedly, so Elias shrugs and doesn’t make any dinner for him. Not that the dinner he himself ends up having is that good. When the upshot of your day is accidentally summoning a spirit by cutting yourself on a tree, you know your day was _shit._ He has finally begun to have more good days than bad, but bad days still suck, especially the ends. 

Bad days mean dreams, and dreams mean he’s going to wake up at least once before he wants to. It’s early in the night, but he turns off the TV once he can wash the dishes and returns to his room. He opens his mouth to say goodnight to Ibarra, but the spirit is nowhere to be seen. 

“Looking for me?” 

He blinks at the shadow hovering atop the aparador. That wasn’t there before. Ibarra—at least he _thinks_ it’s Ibarra—shifts slightly, and he realizes it’s not a shadow. It’s made of the same thing as Ibarra’s dark eye; something more alive than a shadow, and far more terrifying. 

Oh well. At least he left the bed free. 

“I was,” he says honestly. “Good night.” 

Someone must’ve taken pity on him, because he’s almost asleep before he hears Ibarra’s reply. He doesn’t remember what it is. 

* * *

He slams awake to a howl that fills his ears and claws out the loose ends of his nightmare. “What the _fuck!_ ” he shouts,

because his heart thunders and his breath stutters and his brain urges him to scream—

Cold air hits his face from the open window.

Cool. 

Calm. 

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until he’s dizzy. Gathers his skittering thoughts to count to ten. His chest protests when he tries to breathe with it and his subconscious takes advantage of his splintered will to scorch the horrific images onto the backs of his eyelids. 

He counts to sampu this time instead and forces himself to breathe. 

Someone is groaning. Someone shouted with him, earlier—when he first woke up. There was a clatter and a bang and a sickening thump. His heartbeat is still going nineteen to the dozen but Elias yanks the steering wheel away from his subconscious and towards his two forming trains of thought. One contains the briefing of yesterday, the other contains the events of just now. 

Both lead to Ibarra. 

Elias scrambles for the foot of the bed where he heard the noises, his shaking hands feeling for his phone. As soon as it slips between his fingers, he turns on the flashlight and peers down. “Okay ka ba?” 

“Mukha ba akong okay?” Ibarra snaps, squinting in the harsh light. His hair has turned snow white and his eyes glow through his eyelashes. On one cheek, a bruise blooms, ugly and bright; on the other cheek, his tattoo wriggles with annoyance. The nearest star is spinning crazily in place. It’s expressive and eerie and utterly enchanting. “What on earth did you wake me up for?” 

“Hindi kita ginising, a,” he says. Coherent thought returns as his heart rate slows down, and he realizes where the howl must have come from. “Ikaw nga ang gumising sa akin. Ano ba yang kaingayan mo? Parang namamatay na aso na pina-EDM.” 

Ibarra groans again. “That’s the noise I make when I’m _woken up._ What did you do?” 

“I had a _nightmare,_ ” he snaps back. It occurs to them simultaneously. “Ay. Sorry.” 

Ibarra’s mismatched eyes rove over his face. He looks for a while, but he must find something he likes, because the wriggling of his tattoo slows to more measured ebbs and flows. “It’s okay. Do you want to go back to sleep?” 

“Bahala na.” Elias turns off his flashlight and lies back down. His alertness almost tugs his eyelids open, even though as dark as it is there isn’t much to see. There aren’t any lamps lit anymore, so it must be around midnight. _Definitely_ no more sleep tonight, then. “Di ko na ata kaya matulog pagkatapos nun.”

“I’m not asking if you _can,_ I’m asking if you _want to._ ” 

“Syempre naman.” God knows he gets little enough sleep on good days. He snorts. “Bakit, may magagawa ka ba?” 

Ibarra hums. “Maybe.” What does that even mean? 

Should he ask?

In the end he decides he should. Before he can, he hears it: a low, hesitant tune. It softens the darkness, like blurring pencil lines, into a blanket and a lullaby. The pieces click and Elias laughs. “ _Kinakantahan_ mo ba ako?” 

The humming cuts and a growl comes from Ibarra’s position at the foot of the bed. “It won’t _work_ if you keep thinking it won’t. Would you close your eyes and just take it already, gosh!” 

A supernatural being that uses ‘gosh’ unironically. Elias hopes Ibarra can’t see in the dark, because he can feel himself smiling. “Opo,” he snickers, and obediently shuts his eyes. He must’ve frustrated Ibarra some, because he doesn’t start again with the humming. 

He goes straight to the singing, and almost as soon as he does Elias is sorry he made fun of it. The song explodes into the air and weighs down the corners of Elias’s consciousness—and Elias can tell this is meant to be _gentle._ He shudders at the thought of what a creature like that can do when it _doesn’t_ want to be gentle. Thank God Ibarra seems to have taken a liking to him. 

As soon as he thinks that, he forgets it. The melody envelopes him, cradles him as he slides slowly under. It fills all his senses, and Elias suspects that even if he could see anything it would be incidental to that vibrant, entrancing song. 

It isn’t anything like he imagined it might be. Ibarra’s not _telling_ him to do anything; he’s catching hold of the parts of Elias that want to sleep—which are honestly a lot—bringing them to the surface, and singing over the parts that don’t. 

He begins another thought—something about danger, maybe—but he can’t complete it before Ibarra’s song slips him into blissfully dreamless slumber. 

* * *

When he comes out of his room the next day, Ibarra is lounging on the back of the wicker couch. It looks extremely uncomfortable, but he seems to be avoiding the weak bits and enjoying himself. “Are mirrors normal?” he asks stiffly. 

“Yes,” he says, before processing exactly what he has just been asked. If mirrors _aren’t_ normal in Ibarra’s world, how does he even know about them? 

“Are they harmless?” 

“Yes…?” _Ano’ng klaseng tanong yan?_ he wants to say. _Salamin lang ba ang pinag-uusapan natin?_ Elias squints into the fridge. He’ll have to use the stove anyway, he might as well have some eggs with that. 

He frowns, momentarily lost. He doesn’t usually bounce back from a string of bad days so easily—and, based on the ghost of a nightmare lingering in the back of his mind, he should’ve woken up more than the once he remembers. He doesn’t remember any other nightmares after that one, either. That’s strange, and a little bit scary. 

“Is offering people food a good thing?” 

With an egg in one hand and the two containers with his meal in them in the other, he shuts the door with his knee. “Oo naman, bakit?” 

“Oh.” Ibarra’s upside down now, his head hanging off the seat while his bare feet skim over the back. Elias can remember doing that as a child, but he didn’t like it as much as Ibarra seems to. “So… when you offered me food yesterday, you were being nice?” 

“Yes…?” What’s Ibarra getting at? He turns on the gasul and walks back into the kitchen to turn on the stove. The silence stretches longer as the pan warms up and he cracks the egg into it. The white clouds over before Ibarra says, simply, “Oh.” 

“Bakit, ano ba naisip mo?”

“It’s… rude, to do that, in my world.” 

Once he makes sense of the soft mumble, Elias goes cold. “Ay,” he manages. “Hindi ko yan alam kanina. Kung binastos ko po kayo—”

A horrible screeching noise interrupts him. He turns to Ibarra. Is… is he _laughing?_ He looks like he’s laughing, but it sounds like no laugh Elias has ever heard. “Don’t worry about insulting _me,_ ” he snorts. “I’ve hardly got any power to speak of.” 

That doesn’t seem right to Elias, but he slides his spatula under his egg and flips it without replying. Something behind him spits like an angry cat and he jumps, sending the spatula flying as the pan pops in protest. In the time it takes for him to retrieve the poor spatula, Ibarra vanishes.


	7. permets-tu?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a misunderstanding that nevertheless turns out well. 
> 
> (Canon-divergent AU. :D)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while I've tried to make sure this can stand on its own, this is definitely meant to be read as a continuation of the AU of Chapter 1—or as I'm starting to call it, for obvious reasons, the Escape to Europe AU. 
> 
> the title is French for 'do you permit it?', although I don't speak French so it's probably less formal than that (given the tu), and is meant to be a reference to the moment in _Les Miserables_ where Grantaire asks to die by Enjolras's side.

Ibarra’s sigh melted into the near-total darkness of his room. Thirteen years on, and the nightmares still came, the anger still burned, just when he thought they had gone. He was beginning to suspect he might never be free of them, which seemed to be fair enough, considering all that had happened. It would have been stranger for him to come out of that maelstrom completely unscathed. 

There was almost no moonlight left, but he sighed again and tried to get comfortable nonetheless. 

“Ibarra?” 

He jerked upright and groped for a candle; one came into view, lit and flickering. It illuminated Elias’s face—unusually solemn, even for him. 

“Elias,” he rasped, real name for real name. He blinked blearily. “Are you alright?” 

He shrugged and sat down, placing the candle on the nightstand. “Nothing new is plaguing me, at least. I could not sleep, that is all.” 

Ibarra settled back against the head of the bed and waited, watching the shadows thrown by the lone flame play over the ceiling. Autumn days here were warmer than in other parts of Europe, but autumn nights made him think longingly of the Philippines, which amused him, for there, especially hot evenings had turned his thoughts to Spain. 

Elias flexed his hands nervously in his lap and said, “I want to return home.” 

Ibarra’s eyes flickered contemplatively in his direction and found Elias staring back, his face expressive in its passivity. 

Home. Elias meant the Philippines, of course. Elias was homesick. More than that—his homesickness had overcome his wanderlust. 

He had known it would, eventually; Elias, Philippine-born and bred and grown—Elias, loving and devoted—could not be separated for long without consequence from the motherland that thrummed in his veins. He wished he knew how to love a place so much he ached to be there when he was gone—where homesickness should be he felt only a curdling regret at its absence. 

“I should have known,” he said, smiling when Elias frowned. “ When do you want to leave?”

Elias did not seem to know what to make of this. “When do I want to leave?” he echoed faintly. 

“When do you want to leave?” Ibarra repeated, with deliberate nonchalance. He turned his gaze again to the veils of shadow on the walls, fluttering with each dance of the candle. Minutes drifted by in deceptive calm, each passing moment dripping into the silence until it overflowed and Elias spoke. 

“As soon as you can arrange it and I can write to Basilio,” he said, and stood up. “I suppose it would not do to tell _you_ to forget me; it has been thirteen years, after all, and I doubt anything I do could harm you here. Be happy, then, for my sake if not for yours.” 

Ibarra blinked, and stared, and began to laugh. He laughed even harder when he saw the look of confusion on Elias’s face. “Ah, my friend,” he said, gently, reaching out to take the candle from his companion’s still fingers and set it back where it had been before. “You misunderstand me. I am coming with you.” 

“What is this new lunacy?” Elias growled. 

“Call it lunacy if you like. I say again I am coming with you.” 

He shook his head. “That I cannot allow.” 

“Why is that?” he asked evenly. Thirteen years on, and Elias’s essence had not changed one bit: sweet, noble, and the most frustrating man to ever be done a favor. “Can I not make my own decisions? Can I not protect myself?” 

“I never said you could not,” said Elias, although he too looked frustrated. “You know me better than anyone on this earth—you know my reasons and my plans for returning. How can you, who are still haunted by what happened to you there, put yourself in harm’s way again? I, I am more than haunted already, I have a duty, I must go, but you are happy here just as I told you once you could be. Why can you not be content with your happiness? You must understand—I have no wish to be parted from you. What I do have are a wish to honor my love for country and countrymen and a wish to remember you without regret.” 

The painful intensity in every murmured word caught at the tail ends of his doubts and tugged. “You forget,” he began, and found his mouth had gone dry. He swallowed and began again. “You forget I too have a duty. I have also not forgotten what happened to me, nor indeed what happened to you. I have plans, I have money—if not for our sakes, Elias, let me come for the sake of those we left behind.” 

He had struck an underhanded blow, he knew that. It still startled him to see Elias’s eyes go flinty. “Don’t force me—”

“What will I force you to do?” Ibarra asked, very quietly. “Will I force you to acknowledge that your wishes and mine align? I will, because they do.” When Elias scowled, he added, “Tell me that I am wrong and I will respect it. Tell me—look me in the eye and say out loud that you don’t wish I would go.” 

Elias looked at the ceiling, but said nothing. 

To his dismay, when Elias lowered his head, his eyes were bright with despair. “Querido,” he said, and Ibarra started, “you do not know what you say. This war is not for you.” 

Before he could say anything, Elias took up the guttering candle stub and fled. 

* * *

The day dawned clear and crisp and silent, agitating him into emerging earlier than usual. Maria Clara did not join him until breakfast. Elias did not join them at all. He could not have said what he ate, nor what he talked about, only that before the morning was over he stood outside Elias’s room, knocking on the door, with a strange and terrible itch across his chest. 

“Crisostomo,” said Maria Clara, “what are you doing?” 

He glanced at her, and rapped sharply on the wood with his knuckle. Not for anything would he have admitted to the thoughts swirling in his mind. “Elias?” he murmured. The sound would carry, he knew; he pressed his side to the door and listened for movement. 

“Leave him alone,” she said, coming closer. “We were all poorly last night. He must still be asleep.” 

He shook his head and knocked louder. “Elias?” There was no reply, even when he raised his voice a little and called again. “Elias? Elias!” He was nearly shouting now, but the only sounds that came to his ear through the door were the echoes of his own voice. Maria Clara gripped his shoulder. 

“His things,” he croaked around the dread rising in his throat. “His coat and hat. Are they there?” 

“You check the study,” she said, with apology in her eyes and resignation in her posture. She must have known. “I will see to the rest.” 

Heart sinking, he did as he was told. Everything of Elias’s that could be taken on a journey was missing: pens, papers, books, even the ribbon Elias tied his hair with when it got long. The half-empty drawers of Elias’s desk had not been closed properly, and a familiar candle stub rested on one corner. He thought of the finality with which Elias had begun the conversation the night before, and something in his chest went cold. 

Maria Clara was waiting for him outside the silent room, her findings evident from her face. 

The chill spread. “Could he have gone so quickly?” 

She hesitated a little too long for comfort before saying, “Do you really think he would?” 

Under normal circumstances he would have said no at once, but the door remained shut and silent, and he said nothing. Maria Clara watched him; her expression was one he had seen before, but it belonged to that host of things that she and Elias knew and that they would never share with him, and he did not know it. His hands tangled themselves with his disquiet. 

He reached out and tried the door. It was locked. 

Elias only locked his door when he went out for a walk—usually with Ibarra. The air settled as if a thunderclap had just rolled through it. 

A door handle rattled and they both jumped. The door to the hallway, not to Elias’s room, swung open, and someone stood there, hatted, coated, and ponytailed, perturbation in his shoulders and confusion in his eyes. 

“Is there a reason the two of you are looking at each other outside my bedroom,” said Elias, “or have you always liked doing that and never told me?”

Maria Clara and Ibarra exchanged a long, tired look. 

He sighed and drew a hand over his face. “I should have had more coffee at breakfast.” 

“And I have had none at all,” she muttered. 

Elias looked more perplexed now than anything, which annoyed Ibarra even more because it was absolutely genuine. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and opened his mouth to explain. 

Maria Clara was faster, and more direct. “What conclusions would you come to, if you awoke one day and found all of Crisostomo’s possessions missing, his door locked, and no note whatsoever?” 

Elias’s eyes flicked downwards, though when he looked up again they were no less confused. “That... forgive me, I had not thought a note was necessary. How does that explain both of you standing in front of my room?” 

“A note,” Ibarra repeated, flatly, “was not necessary?” 

“I—thought not,” he said, looking so hopelessly lost that Ibarra could not help but feel a little sorry for him, despite everything. “My door was locked, was it not? I thought that would have been enough.” 

“It would have been, too,” said Maria Clara, “had Crisostomo slept more and talked to you less last night.” 

“You panicked too,” he reminded her. 

“You certainly panicked more than I did.” 

“Excuse me,” said Elias, “if you could please return to the beginning and explain this all to me again I would be very grateful. I’m afraid I am half-witless at the moment with bewilderment and have not the faintest idea what my offense is.” 

Maria Clara and Ibarra exchanged another long look. Then he said, “Come with me, Elias, before we all lose our patience.”

* * *

Elias plucked at the ribbon holding back his hair. Although he was sitting on his bed, the only articles of clothing he had removed were his hat and his shoes; his stockinged feet curled and uncurled on the sheets. Instead of asking any question pertinent to the explanation he had just been given, he asked, “Why were you so afraid that I had left without you?” 

Ibarra gave him a scornful look. “You know me better than anyone on earth. How can you ask that?” 

Elias’s downcast eyes flickered under their lashes. “I want you to say it.” 

“Tell me whether or not I have a chance of changing your mind,” he demanded, “because this is all useless if I don’t.” 

The sun had warmed the room for a good few hours now, but, this time of year, Elias would not take off his dusty overcoat until noon, perhaps not even then. It made him look bulkier than he really was, and hid the slight stoop of his shoulders from a lifetime of ducking his head. He was ducking his head now too. 

When he spoke, his voice was low and heavy. “How much do you know of current events there?” 

“What you have told me, certainly, and a little more.” News was hard to come by, as far away as they lived, and he had no idea how Elias did it when he barely seemed to leave the house at all. 

“Then you don’t know enough. I have not set foot there for nearly a decade and the air already tastes like a thunderstorm to me. There has been at least one arrest like yours”—Ibarra glanced sharply at him, but Elias would not meet his eyes—”there is at least one other publication like the one from Barcelona. I am trying to discover what happened to the league that was disbanded last year; either it is nothing or it is discreet enough that I cannot scope it from here. It is an overcast sky in habagat: no one knows if it is only an overcast sky, or a typhoon.” 

The shadow of anguish that passed over Elias’s face startled Ibarra out of his dismay. “You need not choose if you let me come with you,” he said, not without gentleness. 

“If I were sure it was nothing I would have no qualms,” said Elias wearily, throwing himself back upon the pillows and gazing at the ceiling in a kind of worn-out agony. “It’s the possibility that it is not that tortures me. I must keep you alive.” 

“Keeping me alive does not mean never seeing me again.” 

“ _Must_ you?” he snapped, and only then did Ibarra understand how this must have strained him. 

“You really are terrible at being afraid,” he said lightly, poking at one of Elias’s feet. “Well then, if we cannot live forever, I would settle for keeping you alive long enough to die beside you.” 

“Typical,” Elias muttered. His eyes were wide open, and they caught the sunlight like ocean water: sparkling, with life in the depths beneath. “You ask to be allowed to convince me, and you do it before I have a chance to answer.” 

“You took too long,” he replied, and rose. “Could I have your letter to Basilio, if you don’t mind? I should like to add a postscript or two.” 

Elias leaned down and slid it off the top of his valise. “And you will arrange the journey?” 

“Si lo permites,” said he, with a hint of mischief. [If you allow it.]

Elias laughed and brandished a tie at him. “Lo permito. [I allow it.] Now go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look. I'm weak. I see a parallel I grab it with both hands and slap it on top. what makes this even better is that _Les Miserables_ was published in 1862, so Ibarra is probably making this reference consciously :D. anyway, the Spanish is likely less formal than what I put in the brackets ( _permites_ is the 'tu' form) but I tried to dial it to 19th century lingo. you can tell me if I've failed lol. 
> 
> the end of the middle scene (after Elias comes in) feels kind of palpak to me because of the somewhat-abrupt shift in tone, so you can tell me what you think of it, because my critique partner liked it.


End file.
